The Love Egg
by The Flying Breadstick
Summary: Swoon worthy eunuchs, an unwanted mistress, and the custody of an illegitimate 'child' that doesn't belong to him: it's no wonder that Jack hates the opera. Sequel to 'The Quack Act.'
1. A Night At The Opera

**Disclaimer:** I do not own PotC.

**The Love Egg**

**Part I:** A Night At The Opera

Sierra was wary of the volume of her footsteps as she skulked about the bedroom, making certain to keep her movements as quiet as was physically possible.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked, and Sierra jumped, whirling around with a stifled shriek, hurriedly shoving her hands behind her back.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, almost joyously. "I didn't realise you were awake!"

Her husband looked suspiciously at her from beneath the bedcovers, which were pulled protectively up to his chin. "Do I detect a hint of fear in your sweet voice?" he casually queried.

"No," Sierra said, the initial jolt she had felt at hearing him speak fading into tenderness. Smiling softly, she approached him, her hand lovingly pushing his hair back from his forehead the better to kiss him. "How are you feeling?" she asked him compassionately. "Any better?"

Jack merely pouted and shook his head, burrowing further back into the covers, and Sierra sighed. Within the last three days, Jack had suddenly and inexplicably come down with a cold or a flu or some other winter sickness of a kind that had him settled comfortably in bed, surrounded by several warm sheets, a roaring hearth before him as he bemoaned his unhappy state. Personally, Sierra suspected the ex-pirate's bedridden condition was a pretence, but she was far too polite to say so.

"No progress, then?" she asked unhappily, and Jack sneezed in response.

"I'm still not used to this inclement London weather," he whined as Sierra settled herself more comfortably upon the mattress. His head poked out from beneath the covers, and at Sierra's attentive expression, he edged closer, resting his head on her expensive skirts like a child would upon his mother's knee.

His wife merely toyed with his dark hair, her fingers gently rubbing his smooth chin. "What pretty teeth you have," she sang as his jaw opened of its own accord. "But I do miss the gold."

"I still have them," he told her, but she laughed, leaning down to kiss him.

"I know you're not willing to relive the pain the dentist has caused you," she murmured to him. "Now, my dear, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a moment."

"_Why?_" Jack whined plaintively.

"Because I need to get ready, of course."

"Ready? For what?"

"The opera."

Jack stared at her in wounded shock. "_What?_" he asked as he watched his wife slipping a chain of sapphires about her throat.

"Yes, the opera. The season's beginning, and I told you four days ago that I wanted to be there for Handel's premiere, don't you remember?"

Jack was silent, staring up at her in hurt, and Sierra sighed.

"He's written a new one," she said to him, pulling her bodice down to a dangerously low level. "He's one of my _absolute_ favourites; I do hope he persuades Farinelli to sing for him soon. It'd be such a waste if those two talents never worked together."

"I don't _believe_ this!" Jack exclaimed, remembering to cough at the odd look Sierra had given him. "Here I am, your dear husband, lying flat on my back, confined to bed, and you're flitting off to the bloody _theatre_! What great, undying love you have for me!"

"Oh, Jack…" Sierra groaned, unpinning a few of her dark curls so that they fell over her shoulder. "We both know you're only faking this illness of yours so that you don't have to come with us."

"My illness is not a charade!" Jack snapped, offended, and coughed loudly to demonstrate his point. "I'm genuinely unwell, and I am offended to think that you would even _consider_ the possibility that I would use such underhand means to achieve my aims. Exactly what do you take me for?" And he coughed dramatically once more.

She merely rolled her eyes.

"I _do_ wish you would come with us," she said, straightening her cerulean gown. "It's not the same without you. You didn't used to mind accompanying me."

"Aye, but that was before Pearl insisted on accompanying _us_," Jack told her irritably. "With Pearl there, we really have no choice but to listen to the music, and nobody ever goes to the opera for the _music_."

"So why _did_ you go to the opera, then?" Sierra challenged.

"I wanted to see how often the two of us could copulate in public without fear of retribution," he admitted offhandedly, and Sierra giggled in spite of herself, recalling that they were only caught the eighteenth time. "But with Pearl about, sighing over the pastel pansies—"

"They're not pastel pansies, Jack," Sierra corrected, adjusting her earrings and dabbing away at her rouged lips. "They're gentlemen, aristocrats, peers, _nobility_—like we're supposed to be."

Jack shrugged this correction away. "You call it marriage, I call it hell on earth," he commented, and she scowled.

"Charming," she remarked, turning back towards him. "Might I be able to tempt you with the promise of castrati?"

Jack stoically shook his head, coughing once. "Darling, I'm unwell—"

"Oh, come now, Jack!" she cried, stepping towards him earnestly. "I know you absolutely _love_ the singing eunuchs!"

Jack grimaced, but his hatred of the operatic art conquered any fascination he held for emasculated men, and he sneezed once more.

"You shouldn't be going at all, you know," he told her as she made for the door. "It's dangerous for a woman of such obvious wealth and status to venture out to London unaccompanied by a man."

"Oh, don't worry," Sierra reassured him. "Pearl and I shan't be alone."

Jack straightened at this, alert. "Beg pardon?"

"Well…" Sierra said shyly, a silly smile on her face, "Francis has kindly offered to accompany Pearl and myself in view of my husband's ailments."

"…Francis?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, I'm sorry—_Sir_ Francis. Sir Francis Dashwood, the fifteenth Baron le Despencer."

Jack sat up completely in the bed now, sickness having decided to temporarily retreat in light of the libertine's name. "Not _the_ Sir Francis Dashwood?" he almost pleaded.

Sierra shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Well, this particular Dashwood has a great love for all things Italian—including myself," she said with a flattered giggle that brought a frown to Jack's face, "or so he claims, and a great hatred of all things Catholic—and yet he owns the Catholic Medmenham Abbey—Why, darling!" she exclaimed on seeing the dark expression on her spouse's face. "Whatever is the matter?"

"_Well_, I naturally assume that this is the same Sir Francis Dashwood that has established the Hellfire Club and holds routinely satanic orgies at Medmenham with a select number of 'monks' and 'nuns.'"

Sierra looked at him. "Oh, really Jack, those are just rumours," she dismissed. "Although now you've mentioned it, Francis _has_ invited me to stay at his newly-refurbished abbey next week," she mentioned tactfully. "He hasn't told me what for, though—"

"Next week!"

"Yes; we'll be finalising the arrangements this evening. I'll be gone for a month or so, but I daresay you'll manage well enough alone." She blew him a kiss, her gloved hand resting gently on the door handle. "Get well, my love," she called, and was gone.

For a moment, Jack merely sat there, reiterating their brief conversation. Then, without another thought, he flung the covers off of himself, leapt out of the bed, yelled for his valet, and announced loudly that, by some strange and benevolent providence, he had miraculously recovered and was fit enough to be escorting his family to the theatre after all.

* * *

"For the last time, Jack!" Sierra snapped in a whisper barely audible over the histrionic crooning of Senesino, "You _cannot_ arrange a wedding match between your daughter and a castrato!"

"Why not?" Jack, asked, taking his fingers out of his ears long enough to hear her speak and looking as though he greatly regretted doing so.

"_Because_—Because it's simply not done, that's why! All—well, _most_—castrati are Italian, which means that they are Catholic. In the Roman Catholic Church, marriage is simply an arrangement that renders reproduction socially acceptable—that's why French aristocrats have so many lovers, you know; therefore, castrati are unable to marry without relinquishing their faith; they're incapable of fathering children."

Jack smirked at this, and looked from his daughter, perched on the edge of her seat and inadvertently attracting more attention from the male members of the audience than the players upon the stage received, to his wife, curled up beside him, a closed fan in her hand.

"Why else do you think I'm so intent on securing such a match for her?" he asked, and Sierra scowled.

"But that doesn't mean to say," she snapped testily, "that they are incapable of performing the activities required to reproduce," and Jack's smug grin faded slightly at this.

"Now you're just making that up," he accused, and she shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips.

"Don't be so sure," she told him imperiously.

"Eunuchs are incapable of sexual intercourse," Jack stubbornly maintained. "They don't have the equipment."

"The singing ones do," she told him knowingly, and Jack's smile, or what was left of it, diminished.

"Well, I s'pose that to a certain extent, it depends on how they've been cut," Jack allowed.

"Of course it does," she agreed, that smirk never once leaving her lips, and Jack squirmed uncomfortably.

"Um, darling… Have you ever—"

"Just shut up and enjoy the opera, Jack," she told him, sensing what would come next.

"Sierra—"

"Oh God! Look!" she exclaimed, pointing suddenly at the stage, and there was a round of gasps as one of the performers did something indubitably gasp-worthy.

"Don't even attempt to distract me," Jack said to her even as his daughter turned to face them. "There is absolutely _nothing_ that anyone can say—"

"One of the actresses just came out of her bodice!" Pearl cried out in embarrassment, hands reaching up to cover her blushing face.

"_What!_" Jack exclaimed, darting forwards, and Sierra sighed, flicking open her fan. "Who? Which one? Where?"

It took him a while, but he soon felt a pair of eyes boring into his back even as he witnessed an actress clutching at her lavender dress and run sobbing from the stage. Hesitantly, he turned back to meet his wife's narrowed eyes, and as if on cue, the rest of the theatre erupted in taunting laughter, no doubt at the humiliated young woman.

"…I love you?" he tried, and Sierra turned away with a "Hmph!"

"Darling…" he scooted closer, reaching out for her hand, which she snatched away. "It wasn't as if I'd have… propositioned her afterwards."

"Of course," she agreed derisively. "And I, likewise, have never slept with a eunuch."

The curtain, much like Jack's face, fell upon the completion of her last words.

"You didn't sleep with a eunuch," he told her.

"That, clearly, is your own personal opinion. Unfortunately for you, opinions are not facts."

"But you _can't_ have!" Jack exclaimed. "They don't have the necessary equipment!"

"They _do_!" she shot back, and Pearl, having calmed down at the embarrassing blunder the actress had caused, looked at them enquiringly.

"What are you talking about?" she queried curiously.

"Nothing, honey," Sierra reassured the child, and then turned to look at her husband. "There are two types of eunuchs, Jack; the first are those who have only their testicles removed, and the second are those who are halfway to becoming a woman. Castrati fall into the first category, and they _are_ capable of fornication."

"Oh, God…" Pearl groaned, a hand slamming into her forehead; words and actions ignored by the adults beside her, both of whom were apparently unready to relinquish their eunuch beliefs.

"'Castrati' can't bed a woman!" Jack exclaimed.

"Tell that to Nicolini!" she shot back. "He's had more lovers than I!" and Jack blanched at this.

"I thought that such a thing was impossible," he commented, and Sierra swiped at him with her fan.

"But as I was saying," she continued, ignoring his veiled insult, "castrati _are_ capable making love to women—"

"Ah, but to what extent?" Jack challenged, and Sierra sighed before looking over to the teenager beside them.

"Pearl, darling," she said to the girl gently, "I'm about to use a few technical terms to describe certain sexual requisites; could you leave us for a few moments?"

"I'm surprised you felt you needed to ask," she replied, standing and smoothing down her rose-coloured skirt. Only when she had exited the box did Sierra turn to him.

"Castrati are capable of achieving erections, which is really all that's needed as far as coitus is concerned," she told him imperiously. "Trust me," she added as he began to open his mouth.

"And exactly how did you come across such obscure knowledge?"

"You'll force me into a chastity belt if I went into detail," she dismissed, and you can only imagine what expression came across Jack's face at her words.

"Are you saying—But you _couldn't_—They're eunuchs! They couldn't have gotten—"

"It's not what one would call a difficult bodily procedure, actually," Sierra interrupted haughtily. "Anyone can do it—as long as they're men, of course."

"But—"

"All an erection is is an increased blood flow through the corpora cavernosa," she continued, impervious to his interruption. "The removal of testicles in no way prevents that inflow, as the main function of the testes is to produce sperm; therefore castrati _are_ actually physically capable of copulation. Although to be fair, it has to be said that a man's libido _is_ directly linked with the amount of testosterone his body produces, and a large amount of this takes place in the testicles, so the only thing that keeps a castrato chaste is a conspicuous lack of drive, which doesn't really act as much of a safeguard for Pearl's chastity, does it? Therefore, forcing her to marry a castrato is quite pointless, not to mention humiliating."

There was a silence as Jack gaped at the brunette whilst she settled comfortably back into her seat, evidently pleased at winning this particular battle. "How do you _know_ all of this?" he gawked as she reached up to adjust her hair.

The woman shrugged. "I bought you a new book last week," she told him offhandedly. "_Eunuchism Display'd_; but when I got home, I realised that it would probably be best to read it before giving it to you."

"For the love of God, _why_?"

She shrugged her elegant shoulders once more. "I was worried it'll contain corrupting material," she explained to him affectionately. "And I couldn't have my Jackie's innocent little mind poisoned by badly-translated books now, could I?" And she playfully cuffed his cheek, leaning her head on his arm.

"Come to think of it," she said suddenly as Jack continued to stare down at her, "It would probably be a good thing if you allow Pearl to wed a castrato; they're wealthy, loved, understanding, well-travelled, cultured, and, in my own personal experience, rather generous lovers."

_That_ helped Jack locate his missing tongue.

"_Sierra_—" he began dangerously before suddenly stopping. "Actually, I don't think I believe you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't believe you," Jack told her, watching her blue eyes intently. "I think you're trying to rouse my jealousies and therefore manipulate me into bedding you, like you did with Dashwood. Not that I blame you particularly; it _has_ been three days."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, it's all about _you_, isn't it?" she snapped.

"I can't help but observe your lacking refutations," Jack commented with a smug grin.

"Yes—Well—" she breezed over. "But they _can_, you know—and I nearly was. Why, I was propositioned by Senesino himself only last season; he offered me twenty-five guineas for one night in my arms." She closed her fan and sighed dreamily at this. "It was very romantic."

"But you didn't—" Jack began, only to be interrupted by his daughter poking her dark head back in and demanding petulantly to be allowed back to her seat. And so it came to pass that the family settled down into their private box and watched the opera, and a fine time was had by all. (Except for Jack, who spent the remainder of the evening curled up on the floor with his hands pressed firmly over his ears, peeking over the edge every now and again to ogle the actresses prancing provocatively about the stage.)

* * *

"I know you liked the actresses," Sierra accused later as they rode in their carriage.

"I have eyes only for you," Jack automatically assured her, reaching out to clasp her hand.

"Any of them in particular caught your eye?" she continued, unwilling to accept his word. "I noticed how you couldn't stop staring at Argento."

"Who?"

"Sancha Argento—the woman who replaced Anastasia Robinson." At his blank look, she elaborated, "The blonde Italian who took over the role of the actress whose dress came undone?"

"She doesn't possess half your beauty," he charmed, and she sighed.

"Don't insult my intelligence; I know you liked her, and I know you liked her well—no, don't," she said at his protests. "It's been a while since you've taken a mistress."

It was on the tip of Jack's tongue to point out that having a mistress alongside his lascivious wife would very probably kill him, but he bit back on his words as Pearl yawned.

"What are you saying?" the teenager asked, staring from one to the other, pouting as she was once again ignored.

"I've invited her to stay with us, for a while," Sierra told Jack gently. "That's where I went during the interval. I trust you don't mind?"

Jack could only stare at her; it was one thing for a wife to tolerate a mistress, but for the woman to arrange such a liaison? Had they all gone French?

"Do you still love me?" he asked her suddenly as she hid her face behind her fan.

"Of course," she replied, piqued that he would think otherwise.

"Then why—"

"I know Sancha personally, actually," she explained to him, determinedly shielding her face from his gaze. "It'll be nice to spend some time with her again; it's been so many years… And if you like her… Well, I know for a fact that she would welcome such an arrangement."

And it was only then that she snapped her fan shut, lowering it to her lap and smiling enigmatically up at him. Jack frowned at this odd behaviour, but didn't press the issue further, choosing instead to relieve the painful evening as they rode in an awkward silence. She was up to something; he knew her well enough to know that much. His wife would never tolerate his taking a mistress, let alone arranging—

Something flashed suddenly before him, and he straightened, grabbing his wife's hand.

"Sierra," Jack demanded suddenly as their carriage jolted, "What _was_ the name of that opera again? I don't think you've ever actually told me."

Sierra kept her eyes fixed on the floor of the carriage. "Didn't I?" she asked mildly with a slight smirk. "Here." And she handed him a folded sheet of paper.

With mounting suspicion, Jack accepted the flimsy page, and glancing down at it, his heart couldn't help but freeze as one single word, in bold capitals, leered at him from the comparatively smaller text around it:

**FLAVIO**

**TBC**

**AN:** Sorry for the slowness of this chapter; it's more of a prologue than anything else. Things will pick up next chapter, I assure you. And also, there's a major plot development/revelation in this, but you need to read my other stuff to pick up on it.


	2. Receiving A Queen

**The Love Egg**

**Part II:** Receiving A Queen

The Livingstones' residence was buzzing in preparation of the arrival of Sancha Argento, for the European actress had made many requests that must _under all circumstances_ be met before she would even consider setting foot through the front door.

It would therefore come as no surprise that the master of the house was doing everything within his power to thwart them, a mission which caused his wife much annoyance.

"Jack!" she cried aloud, snatching the half-mutilated bouquet from out of his grasp; Signora Argento had requested that there be a vase of pale pink roses in every corner of every room the Italian would enter or pass during her stay with them, and as such, the man had taken to crushing every petal he came across, regardless of colour or species. He was just about to destroy a priceless orchid, but Sierra's words stopped him in his tracks. "What do you think you're _doing_? Oh, look at the mess you've made!" she chided him as one would chide a misbehaving puppy.

Jack looked sullenly up at his wife in resentment, and then slowly turned to look at the trail of petals behind him. "…Happy anniversary?" he tried, spreading his arms wide and throwing his fistful of petals up into the air, scowling when they landed in his hair.

Sierra narrowed her eyes at the comical sight and grabbed his wrist, pulling him petulantly forward, defaced bouquet clutched tightly in her other hand. "See what you can salvage," she snapped at Beckham, handing over the flowers before pulling her husband up a flight of stairs and into the master bedroom, where she slammed the door shut and all but threw poor Jack onto the bed. She was silent for a moment, leaning against the door as she glared at the man, who swallowed and moved up the mattress slightly.

"…Why?" she said at last, clearly frustrated. "Oh, Jack, for the love of God, _why_? It's only Flavio."

Jack couldn't believe that a woman who he had always prided upon as being so intelligent could also be so dense, and a mixture of anger and disbelief forced him to choke out, "Because. It's. _Flavio._"

"Now, you don't know that for sure," Sierra proceeded to patronise, and Jack gaped at her, knowing full well that she had all but confirmed Sancha's true identity a mere half hour before. She smiled at him slightly, stepping deliberately forward, and seated herself on the edge of the mattress, her finger reaching up to rest playfully on his lips. "Her name is Sancha Argento, and ripping apart roses won't change the fact she thinks highly enough of us to grace our residence with her presence for an unspecified amount of time… And possibly money." She paused to smile coquettishly before adding teasingly, "And besides, we both know you fancy _her_."

Jack narrowed his eyes at his wife, and she chose that exact moment to thrust her chest slightly forwards and inhale deeply, an action which helped to calm Jack's blind fear/anger slightly. "You speak as though the King himself is coming to stay," he accused of her, unconvinced by her feeble argument, and she smiled wickedly in response.

"Well, in a very literal sense, we _are_ receiving a queen," she told him, leaning forwards to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "And he _was_ a king at the opera, don't forget."

"Was he?" Jack asked, finding the combination of her nuzzling at his neck and the way her fingers had slipped under his shirt to circle one of his numerous scars distracting.

"Yes," she murmured, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat, and he closed his eyes as her lips pressed teasingly against his jaw. "It said so on the playbill; _Flavio, re di Longobardi_."

That simple statement had Jack jerking away from his decidedly amorous wife, causing her to cry out in offence.

"Oh, honestly, what's wrong _now_?" she snapped at him, her fingers reaching up to straighten her hair.

"Do you honestly expect me to bed a woman who has invited one of the greatest threats to mankind into my house _and _allocated him a bedroom in the same wing as my own!"

"Now you're just overreacting," she scolded. "Oh pumpkin, really…" she added as he turned away from her, crossing his arms. Out of habit, she instinctively pulled her bodice down a little lower before moving towards him, her hands reaching out to rest on either of his shoulders.

"Be reasonable, Jack," she soothed, her fingers gently kneading his skin through the layers of clothing he wore. "The last time we saw Flavio was eight years ago, remember? He left your ship the moment he was married." There was a pause as she craned her neck to look up at her husband's face, smiling smugly on seeing that his eyes were closed in relaxed pleasure. "To a _woman_," she continued, her hands trailing down his back and twirling around his waist in a loose embrace as she leaned forward, chin resting on his shoulder whilst she whispered softly into his ear, "A woman he'd impregnated _beforehand_. Don't you think this means that, under all the skirts and petticoats and stockings and corsets and powder and feathers and wigs and rouge and fans and jewels and swooning over attractive men, there _might just lurk_ a lover of women?"

Jack, for his own part, wasn't really paying much attention to her persuasive, if slightly illogical, whispers; he had found his eyes slipping closed as she had gently chased away the tension in his shoulders, and now he was concentrating on the way her fingers playfully fidgeted with his shirt, and how her lips were brushing his earlobe.

Many times in the past had Sierra used this tactic for her own nefarious ends (only three months ago she had used this technique to triple her monthly shopping allowance; Jack had been annoyed, but this had faded when he had found out she had spent a quarter of it on rum, which she personally didn't drink a lot of), so he really should have been on his guard, and if he had been, he might have had the presence of mind to enquire that if Flavio _was_ as happily married as she claimed, exactly why was he masquerading as an actress, and when, in the name of all that was holy and otherwise, the hell did he find the time to learn to sing opera; but the man was so lost in her uncharacteristically gentle, loving touch that he hadn't the heart to contradict her. Sierra nipped gently on his neck in silent triumph; shoulder massages helped her to win a lot of arguments which she might otherwise have lost, and she was secretly grateful that the man was not yet impervious to this swaying charm as he now was with so many others.

And that was how Sancha Argento was granted permission to stay under the Livingstones' roof. (The fact that Lady Livingstone may have casually promised to ask her good friend, the beautiful blonde courtesan Emily Warren, to join them in the marital bed within the next month or so may or may not have contributed to this particular decision.)

It was a decision that Lord Livingstone would regret making, and sooner than even _he_ would think.

* * *

"_Sedano_!" Sancha cried, flying into the parlour quite unannounced and pausing breathlessly, meticulously counting the number of roses in a vase on a cabinet beside the door before glancing around at every other corner in the room. "I can't come in here," she said suddenly, voice rising with fear, backing away even as Lady Livingstone rose, arms outstretched to greet her old friend.

Sierra allowed her eyes to widen as her lower lip trembled in a semblance of a pout. "Oh, Flavio, why ever not?"

The actress merely pointed to a far corner, and Sierra turned to see an empty vase. She also noted that her husband was seated only a few feet away, an exaggerated look of innocence on his face.

"Jack. Roses," she commanded, like one would a dog, her hand making an impatient gesture as she spoke.

"Beg pardon?"

"Put them back," she said, and he blinked at her. Sighing, she stalked towards him, her fingers pulling and tugging at his coat, slipping in and out of his every pocket, whilst Jack merely sat back with a smirk. "I won't hesitate to strip you," she warned, and Jack's leer merely widened at this.

"Even with Flavio here to watch."

The ex-captain froze, glancing towards the door, where the actress stood watching both man and wife with an intensity most worrying before falling back to look into his wife's unsmiling eyes, and reluctantly pulled out a handful of crushed flowers from beneath his seat.

"Thank you, darling," she simpered most sarcastically, frowning at the pale crushed blossoms. She stood, walking languorously towards the vase, and placed the blooms into the fine china.

She was just straightening the stalks when she stumbled forwards with a shriek, losing her breath as Flavio darted across the room, arms wrapped tightly about her waist and squeezing every bit of air from out of her lungs, squealing like an excited piglet as he did so.

"Oh… Oh God… _Flavio_," she choked, batting her hands feebly at his wrists. "Jack!" she pleaded, but the pirate merely took one look at the scene and, with the somewhat selfish thought of, _If I'm not careful, that could be me,_ darted behind the elaborate couch, leaving Sierra to deal with the affectionate sodomite on her own.

It was a few minutes, but soon his wife's coughing and gagging had faded, to be replaced with mumbled words of Italian and the rustling of clothes as she indubitably attempted to straighten herself. Cautiously, Jack slowly rose from his crouching position as far as he dared to witness Sierra saying something excitedly in Italian, touching the cherry-coloured skirt of her houseguest, to which Flavio had responded with a flattered giggle and a girlish twirl. Sierra laughed, her hands coming together in a clap before reaching up to pull gently at one of Flavio's golden curls.

The man was more than happy to simply watch (as the alternative was to interact, and God only knows how dangerous that might be), eyebrows rising as he witnessed the pair of them acting like a pair of superficial schoolgirls, tugging at one another's clothing, examining and adjusting their hair, fingering one another's jewels and hairpieces, arms repeatedly wrapping about the other's shoulders in an innocent embrace, leaning closer the better to kiss—

—_Wait a minute,_ Jack thought suddenly, frowning at the sight of his wife and a gender-confused, nationality-confused, identity-confused… just generally _confused_, ah, individual, pressed together in a kiss. Well, the kiss could be innocent enough, as it was merely a slight joining of the lips; perhaps they'd both intended to peck one another on the cheek, and had collided, because there was absolutely no way that Flavio, despite his sham of a "marriage," could have found Sierra, striking creature that she was, _attractive_. So perhaps the fact that Flavio's pale hand had snaked about Sierra's corseted waist and was pulling her as close to him as their skirts would allow was simply the man's way of balancing himself from the shock of it all. And the way Sierra's hands were wrapping themselves about his neck and back; merely attempting to support him before he collapsed on her, of course. Surely… And in the course of all the excitement, their tongues just _happened_ to have slipped into one another's mouth…

Before any member of the room quite realised what was happening, Flavio was being pulled off of Lady Livingstone with a hysterical shriek, head pulled painfully back as he was dragged by his lovely flaxen hair away from the English aristocrat and back out into the hall.

"Beckham!" Jack Sparrow barked, ignoring the ridiculous number of trunks being pulled up the stairs by several heavily-panting servants as he yanked the opera singer along with more force than was perhaps necessary. Merely moments later, the loyal butler had appeared at his master's elbow with a polite bow.

"You snarled, My Lord?" he queried, his manner so detached that he barely raised an eyebrow at the cursing woman weeping pitifully for her lovely locks. Jack had then proceeded to order the butler to remove all of "Sancha's" belongings and toss them back out into the street, but Beckham had responded that he was under strict orders from his mistress to prevent such a thing from occurring, and had apologised profusely, to which Jack had replied that the servant escort Sancha up to the smallest, coldest, most uncomfortable room in the house. Beckham had apologetically answered that the Livingstone wealth was such that the architecture was flawless, and such a room, even if one was to take the kitchen and servants' quarters into account, did not exist.

"Well, just get rid of him!" Jack had snapped, and shoved poor Flavio into Beckham's arms before stalking back to the parlour with every intention of reproaching his unfaithful wife.

The reprimand died on his lips as he entered to see the lady in question resting on the couch, skirts scattered about her, her hand lazily flapping back and forth in a pathetic imitation of a fan as she breathed heavily, a wide smile on her face as she gazed off somewhere into the distance. She looked up when her husband entered, and seemed to become slightly more aware of herself and her surroundings.

Slightly.

"He's such a good kisser…" she sighed dreamily, her dark head falling to rest on the elaborately carved furnishing. "Oh Jack, wait… Don't be like that… Come back…" she absent-mindedly protested when her long-suffering husband had turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlour. Sierra's inane grin widened, if that was possible, and sitting up slightly, she repeated, a little louder, "Such a good kisser…

"Almost as good as Emily…"

Despite himself, Jack had come slinking back into the parlour to seat himself beside her, glaring all the while, his expression unchanging as the woman curled up in his lap, murmured several apologies between kisses, and proceeded to relate to him the heartfelt tale of her time in the convent before he had appeared with a pistol aimed at her pretty head; how she had been befriended, and later seduced, by two young, attractive and naturally acrobatic lesbian nuns (one a blonde, the other a redhead, for variety's sake) and how they had then proceeded to make wanton lustful sinful carnal licentious love in the carrot patch they were supposedly tending (why they chose the carrot patch, of all the places in the vegetable garden they had had access to, I shall leave to your imagination); of how the Mother Superior, herself a stunning and suspiciously big-bosomed nymph (who was far too young and nubile to have realistically gained the position of Mother Superior) had discovered them one sultry Caribbean day as she made her rounds; how she had immediately gathered them all in her Spartan room, stripped them of their hastily-donned habits, and had the three temptresses all whipped for their lascivious sins, and how they had all secretly enjoyed it, and how their "unnatural arrangement," short-lived as it was, was well worth the fires of eternal damnation.

_This is why I married her,_ Jack thought fondly, his fingers toying with her dark hair as he leant down to place a lingering, affectionate kiss on her cheek. _She may have her flaws, but at least she always tells me the truth._

**TBC**

**AN:** A little filler for now; next chapter, Flavio tells us the wonderful moving heart-wrenching true story of his life… As a Neapolitan goat.


	3. Walk The Duck

**The Love Egg**

**Part III:** Walk The Duck

Flavio had been a guest at the Livingstones' townhouse for three days, and Jack was already planning to have him evicted. There were a good deal of many reasons as to why Jack wished to turn the transvestite out into the mildly cold to lukewarm London streets, and they were all reasons that the pirate _could_ have endured with a mild headache, had they all occurred _individually_. Alas, this was not to be, and as fate would have it, poor Jack had taken to barricading himself in the master bedroom, emerging only for food, fresh air, and to ensure that his wife was behaving herself, which meant that he wasn't really barricading himself at all, what with stalking out of the room every fifteen minutes to cast a suspicious eye over Lady Livingstone as she entertained Flavio in the parlour. Running up and down the stairs did provide him with some very good exercise though, so it wasn't such a terrible fate as he had originally thought.

On one such nip down to the dining room adjoining the parlour, he had stumbled upon his daughter, who was going about the house gathering all of the roses.

"What are you doing?" he asked of her, taking in the large basket she carried.

The teenager shrugged. "I become quite the little housewife when bored," she informed him confidentially. "And besides, I hate wilting flowers; their presence always reminds you that you're going to grow ugly and then die, which really isn't the most uplifting of philosophies, and I'm still young and beautiful and I honestly don't _need_ such negative reminders." She viciously snatched up a bundle of roses, shaking the stalks free of water, a childish snarl on her face. "I don't want to be told that I'm going to die by an inert blossom!" she cried, throwing the bouquet into her basket before looking up at her father and adding softly, "And besides, they make Si-Si sneeze, although she's far too civilised and considerate of Flavio's feelings to admit it."

"By Si-Si, do you mean my wife or your duck?" he quizzed.

"_My_ Si-Si, of course," she told him, and Jack sighed in exasperation, as he knew full well that Pearl believed that both wife and duck were "her Si-Si." As if to answer him, there was a feeble quack, and then a white bird waddled over to look blearily up at her mistress with pleading eyes. Pearl beamed brightly down at her pet, bending and cooing over it as though it were a baby. As Jack watched with a mild sense of trepidation—for he was still not entirely at ease with mallards, no matter what he told his wife—he couldn't help but feel as though he should have bought the girl the puppy she had requested at the tender age of five.

"Don't worry," she was comforting the bird, rubbing its white head tenderly as it squawked. "Look, look, Pearl's getting rid of all of the roses for you, just as you wanted, see?"

The duck spread its wings (and Jack took an involuntary leap back) in a gesture of supreme urgency, quacking excitedly. Pearl furrowed her brow, tilting her dark head to the side as she listened to its squawks.

"Oh," she said at long last when it waddled over to a window. "_Oh_—Oh, I see! Oh, but of course." And she turned to her father and enquired, primly, "Papa—might I be permitted to escort Si-Si as she waddles through St James' Park?"

There was a pause at this.

"…You want to take the duck out for a walk?"

"If you don't mind," she confirmed, looking expectantly up at him with her big blue eyes.

The lord hesitated, looking towards the closed doors leading into the parlour, then back at the frustratingly beautiful girl before him. St James' Park was as nice a park as one could hope for, although he knew—from rumours as well as personal experience—that concealed in its green leaves lurked a dark, seedy underworld of prostitutes, pickpockets, and preachers of the imminent apocalypse. So to allow her to escort the duck, he would personally have to escort the escort of the duck, and to escort the escort of the duck, he would have to abandon his own self-appointed post as secret chaperone to his spouse, which would mean risking—

"Oh, Flavio!" Sierra's voice rang out from somewhere to his left, and the man turned to look out into the hall to see his wife walking arm in arm with the blonde actress. She raised her elegant fingers to her lips as a giggle escaped, looking up at the houseguest in unconditional adoration. "You're so terrible! And poor, poor Ben!" she added with a smack at his arm. "In mating season?"

"He didn't remain true to himself," Flavio defended. "'Twas a heinous crime in need of correction—"

"Well, yes, but—" Lady Livingstone playfully argued, stopping when her eyes fell upon her husband, their daughter, and the family pet. "What's this?" she queried as Flavio darted from her side to coo over the quacking duck, which Pearl immediately scooped up in a most defensive gesture. Straightening, she narrowed her eyes at Flavio, who whimpered and leapt back to cower behind Sierra's red skirts. Like her father, she did not like Flavio, not since the time he'd attempted to exorcise her and her first Si-Si; but although impervious, she knew of the man's unusually charming nature, hence why she'd prevented Si-Si the Second from physically touching the odd blond-haired creature. He'd already taken the first Si-Si away with her!

And as for Flavio's squeak of fear, well—he couldn't actually remember, but he was certain that there was a perfectly legitimate explanation for why he should be—and, indeed, _was_—afraid of this pale, slender creature with the narrowed blue eyes, struggling white duck, and basketful of roses; indeed, such was his illogical fear that he refrained from commenting on the slowly wilting blossoms, choosing instead to grip tightly onto Sierra's silken skirts and whimper.

"There there," she comforted, tapping the hand that was grabbing at her waist, a mischievous glint in her eyes as they swivelled to rest on the duck. She lifted her gaze to look somewhat knowingly up at Jack, and Pearl, oblivious of this silent exchange, stepped forward to Sierra to look eagerly up at her mother and chirrup in her sweet, eager manner,

"Can we take Si-Si for a walk?"

Sierra blinked at this, confused, before looking down at the duck, who released a squawk of irritation, attempting to leap forward and peck at the woman, who shrieked slightly in alarm and shrank back. Now ducks, as far as birds and other woodland critters go, are not a violent nor vindictive species; however, this was a duck of superior intelligence and something vaguely resembling the beginnings of self-awareness; this duck still recalled a day in the company of Lord Livingstone not so long ago, which she had thoroughly enjoyed, and which had abruptly ended at the appearance of this particular woman, so a violent bitterness could really only be expected from the creature.

"All together," Pearl pressed, unaware of the one-sided rivalry for her father's affections between her mother and her pet. "Can we take Si-Si for a walk? We haven't done anything as a family in so long." She paused for dramatic effect before sneaking a glance at the cowering Flavio and adding spitefully, "Not since _he_ arrived."

"_She,_" Flavio corrected in spite of himself, only to fall back at the derisive glare directed at him.

"Pearl," Sierra began, "do you really think that is entirely appropriate? We have a guest here, and—"

But to everybody's surprise, it was Flavio who piped up to unequivocally agree that yes, what Pearl said was true, that he _had_ been taking up too much of the wife's time, and that a brief turn in St James' Park was a very good idea, and with these niceties successfully concluded, proceeded to launch into a tirade that was part speech, part out-of-tune aria, on the importance of family.

"If that is the case," Sierra had queried in a cold voice coloured with a nuance of hurt, "then why are you not with _your_ family?"

Flavio blinked, confused. "_Ti chiedo scusa?_"

"Your sister," Sierra pressed. "Your wife, your son?"

"My wife and son?" he parroted, now more bewildered than ever. At Sierra's disbelieving stare, his eyes widened, and he cursed, "_Dio caro!_ I left them in Spain!" before turning tail and immediately dashing up the stairs, no doubt with the intention to write to them immediately.

"Sweet man," Jack commented, stepping forward and giving his wife a kiss. She smiled, curling into him, head resting on his shoulder, and they would have been very content to remain that way had Pearl not began to alternately tug upon their respective clothing most belligerently.

"Si-Si wants to be walked!" she squawked.

* * *

"If you had told me eight years ago that I would be escorting a wife and daughter through St James' Park with a duck on a lead, I would have laughed at you," Jack commented as the duck quickened its pace, pulling Pearl a little further ahead of the languorously walking couple.

Lady Livingstone merely smiled at this, adjusting her lace-trimmed parasol so that she might rest her head on her husband's shoulder.

"And if you had told me that I'll be a celebrated society belle married to a wealthy lord with two perfect children whilst secretly writing scandalous French novels and influencing government policies, I'd have sent you to my parents."

Jack raised his eyebrows at this, and turned his head to look at the woman on his arm; she very seldom, if ever, talked of family, and even though it wasn't a part of her life that he was particularly interested in, the rare times that she did bring them up always took him by surprise. The only thing he knew of her mother and father was that they were either rather efficient social climbers, or had always travelled in the highest of circles; considering how easily his missus had adapted to aristocratic life, he was inclined towards the latter.

"Exactly how did this happen to us?" he murmured as he watched his daughter fly to her duck with a squeak of panic, the bird having taken to pecking at the flat leather cord wrapped about her white torso.

"Simple, really; you were being a cold forsaking ass that, upon realising I was with child, wanted nothing more to do with me, until you had heard that I was engaged to an ostracized aristocrat, at which point you promptly snuck onto his plantation with every intention of ripping his throat out."

"Your effortless eloquence betrays your life of novelistic duplicity."

"Oh, stop," she chided with a tap of her fan, just as Pearl began to tell the duck off for pecking at her mistress' fingers.

"Hard to believe that she's actually sixteen, isn't it?" she asked rhetorically of her husband, who smiled and laughed.

"I like her like this," he admitted as Pearl continued to reprimand her feathered Si-Si. "Far better than the alternative."

"What, you mean when she's chasing after boys and sneaking them pass your overbearing nose and into her closet?"

"She gets that from you, you know."

"Darling, I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but it's long since been apparent that you've an unquenchable and frankly irritating zeal for the gentler sex; I honestly believe that her own eagerness for the supposedly superior gender is hereditary, and thus your own doing."

"Now you sound just like my mother," he muttered, disgruntled.

"You always say that when you know I'm right," she replied, unruffled, and inadvertently confirming his small comment. "Darling," she began suddenly, halting her slow steps to look up at him.

Jack shifted slightly, discomforted as he was by the sudden realisation that the woman was about to express something of immense sentimentality.

"Thank you so much," she told him quietly, her gloved hands clutching tightly to her parasol. "I've never actually said this, I know, but… Everything that you've done for me, all that you've given up…"

"Sierra… Darling… You've already said this."

The woman blinked, completely caught off guard. "Did I?"

"Yes: Just after I told you that I'd escort you and the children to London as husband and father, on the understanding that we will cunningly counterfeit my death and the sudden decrease in the Livingstones' funds, thus providing you with the family and security you've so desperately craved and ensuring my own freedom; and then again when I decided to suspend this elaborate scheme for a further six months; and a final time when I announced that perhaps I will be staying with you after all."

"Oh yes, of course; sorry. I forgot."

"No apologies needed," Jack brushed away. There was a moment of silence before Jack said, in what sounded to him like a suspiciously boyish, overeager tone, "But it wouldn't hurt for you to express your gratitude a final time, would it?"

"No," she agreed with a tender smile, lowering her parasol and moving to wrap her arms about his waist, her smiling face resting against the soft material of his warm coat. A moment of this affectionate embrace passed before she asked,

"What, all of it, or should we just skip to the wild, uninhibited lovemaking?"

Jack looked around, noting how his daughter had tucked the lead into her muff before setting off across the wintry but sunny park, duck in tow, and after a moment or so of silent contemplation, resentfully acknowledged, "Well, it is a little cold out here…"

Sierra grinned impishly up at him, and reached up to whisper softly,

"There are some furs in the carriage." After a quick glance about to ensure they were not being watched, she nipped lightly on his ear before calmly informing him that they could, if they wanted, ask the trustworthy Beckham to watch over their daughter for them whilst they were otherwise occupied. Jack honestly couldn't see anything wrong with this plan, and so, with a slight smirk, allowed his giggling wife to lead him away.

* * *

Whilst his host and hostess were busy acknowledging and reinforcing their playful passion for one another, Flavio was preoccupied with the sending of his letter. Having long since developed a grim distrust for each and every domestic servant, the actress had decided that, in a cunning, unnoticeable disguise comprised exclusively of his host's wardrobe, to deliver the letter to the post office himself, and it was to this end that the blond could be found walking through some of London's more impoverished, though not necessarily seamier, streets and alleyways, a thick, tightly sealed parchment along with a purse full of his host's, ah, 'borrowed' coin tucked inside his inner pocket.

He knew that he had forgotten something in Spain when he had begun to excitedly pack and prepare for London, but to be perfectly honest, he had thought that it was only his toothbrush; so, he had promptly waltzed out of his apartments to purchase a fine toothbrush, and his anxious mind had been subsequently laid to rest. It was only now that he remembered his lovely domineering wife and their sweet trilingual son, who was to turn eight this year, if he was not mistaken. So when the lovely Sedano had mentioned his interventionist Amata and their maverick Bambino, he had immediately dashed to his room in order to scribe a letter desperately imploring them to follow.

So Flavio was all perfectly innocent and good of heart as he swaggered carelessly down the street, his ears absorbing each and every criers' cry, every orange wenches' croon, and every peddler's wheedling in feigned half interest, when something stopped him in his track; for a man had said, in his deep, rough, Cockney voice, that he had something no man nor woman should do without.

Now Flavio, you see, was an easily-influenced creature; oh yes, there were some subjects on which he was utterly adamant, including but not limited to his gender, his true nationality, his parentage, his social status, and his singing talent, which critics across the continent tended to disagree on. But if all of these basic beliefs were to be put aside, we would find ourselves standing before a thumb-sucking, comfort-blanket-holding, wide-eyed and highly impressionable five-year-old, and it was to this five-year-old that the street trader had confessed that his wares were items that no man (or woman) should go without.

So Flavio stopped. He frowned. He doubled back. He studied. He negotiated. And then, with a sudden pang of guilt, he paid, purchased, hurried on to the post office, and dashed madly back to Cranborne House lest his hosts return before him; and so, when the small Livingstone clan did eventually slip into the warmth of the elegant townhouse (all three of which were vaguely dishevelled, but only two of whom were smirking knowingly) they did so with a sort of affectionate, strengthened unity, and harboured absolutely no suspicions of the hell that was about to be unleashed within their very home.

**TBC**


End file.
